


Any Eden

by queerofhearts



Series: He Maketh Me [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Shots, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Hair Brushing, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Making the South Downs Cottage, Misunderstandings, Other, Real Estate as Romance, Reconciliation, Relationship Issues, Romantic Gestures, Sensuality, Slow Dancing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), learning to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26064544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofhearts/pseuds/queerofhearts
Summary: Their lives have always been a tangle, a knot that grows more and more complicated, but now it feels more like two different sets of puzzles whose pieces miraculously fit together.Yet Aziraphale knows that the burden lies more with him. After all he's done to hurt Crowley, loving him now has to be deliberate, planned and practiced, until it is an everyday, commonplace occurrence. He has to cultivate a love that surrounds Crowley, saturates him, soaks into his skin, overwhelming the wounds of the past until they are barely noticeable next to the bright and aching light of Aziraphale's love.~Aziraphale learns how to love Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: He Maketh Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891057
Comments: 31
Kudos: 113





	Any Eden

_Come live with me and be my love,  
And we will all the pleasures prove,  
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,  
Woods, or steepy mountain yields._

~

Crowley grows his hair out again. He claims he’s too lazy to go to the barber, but Aziraphale quietly suspects it may have started when Aziraphale first put tentative fingers through Crowley’s hair and remarked upon its beauty. Now all Crowley needs to do is tilt his head or make the right face and Aziraphale will drop what he’s doing and reach over immediately. He buys Crowley ponytail holders and scrunchies and one or two elegant clips, keeps a brush at his desk, learns how to French braid.

“Your hair is beautiful,” he murmurs one night, when Crowley kneels at his feet, head resting on the angel’s knee.

The kneeling is new. Mostly they curl up on the couch, heads in laps or bottoms in laps or twisted pleasantly around each other. But sometimes Crowley will slide off to the floor, or he’ll tiptoe up to Aziraphale and sink to his knees. The angel very courteously doesn’t mention this behavior, but he can’t help but wonder as he strokes fingers through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley huffs, one arm hooked around Aziraphale’s calf, petting the back of Aziraphale’s knee, distracting but not tickling. “I put thousands of pounds worth of product in it, it better be good for something.”

“I always rather liked it long,” he muses. It’s still a marvel to be able to put voice to thoughts he’s had a thousand times. Crowley doesn’t react, so he thinks it’s safe to continue. “You’re always very fashionable, my dear, but it looks so soft like this. Touchable. Like in the sixties.” It’s just past his earlobes now, a very short bob, and he has half of it pulled up so Aziraphale cards his fingers through the loose strands around his neck.

Crowley turns his face, hiding it against the angel’s thigh, but he knows he’s smiling.

~

Aziraphale pours their tea. 

Crowley puts all three macarons on Aziraphale’s plate.

 _The Five Love Languages_ by Gary Chapman.

~

“That was really quite sweet of you,” Aziraphale remarks one day. Two minutes ago, Crowley had stormed into the shop, thrust a box of Belgian chocolate seashells and a small bouquet upon him, and then stalked off to the kitchen to find a vase.

At first, this method of delivery had startled and upset Aziraphale, but he’d since learned better. Crowley had spent so long sneaking in his gestures of affection, not wanting Aziraphale to notice that he was making love, that doing so openly seemed to make him feel exposed. Apparently, it was even more invasive if Aziraphale dared to thank him.

Crowley’s reply noises manage to communicate casual disagreement. But he takes the hand that Aziraphale holds out for him.

It wasn’t exactly acceptance of the gratitude, but it was a step in the right direction.

This is much better than his first attempt, anyway.

A few weeks after Crowley had made him carbonara, Aziraphale had crowded next to him on the sofa, lashes fluttering, and asked if he would make it again. Crowley had whined and said it was too big a fuss and the next day showed up with plastic bags of groceries, a bundle of peonies, and four miniature princess cakes. (Aziraphale had tried to light a candle for the table, but Crowley had snatched it up and thrown it into the alley.)

When his plate had been cleaned, Aziraphale had shifted his chair close, reaching out for Crowley’s hand under the table. He’d only had one glass of wine but he was already contemplating the merits of abandoning his seat in favor of Crowley’s lap. He felt full, satisfied, in love, extremely lucky, every possible lovely feeling, all thanks to the person beside him.

“I never did thank you properly after that first time. It was so sweet and thoughtful of you to learn to cook for me, my dear. I confess I was quite overcome at it.”

“It’s nothing,” Crowley had dismissed, taking a gulp of his wine. “One of the easiest pasta dishes.”

“But you’d never cooked the human way before, and you learned for me,” the angel had pointed out. He had taken Crowley’s hand in both of his, rubbed gently at his fingers, looked at him earnestly, blatant adoration. Crowley _had_ to know how good he made him feel. He had to know that his love was no longer being taken for granted. “It was an incredibly kind gesture, and it made me feel very special.”

Crowley had disengaged his hand, gotten up, and begun miracling things clean, putting them away. Aziraphale had watched, puzzled.

“Crowley?”

“Do you want to start with just one cake or go right to two?” Crowley had brought out the dessert box and set it on the table, turning to grab a fork.

“My dear, I just wanted to say how _grateful_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, I _get_ it,” Crowley had snapped, slamming the drawer shut so hard that the silverware gave a horrific rattle.

Aziraphale had stood, his pastry forgotten, approaching Crowley like one would sidle up to an injured tiger. His eyes had flicked from the tense shoulders, trembling back, clenched fists. It had looked as though Crowley suffering a silent agony. Aziraphale had cleared his throat from nerves, worried that one wrong word would send Crowley skating away.

“Crowley,” he had whispered softly, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Aziraphale,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “Stop.” His voice was low and rough.

The angel took in a short breath, unsure if he should argue, nervous that his touch might burn.

“ _Please_.”

At that point, further press had felt far too cruel.

“…I think I’ll start with the one cake. Would you like one, too?”

The look Crowley had shot him was so open, so thankful, it was as though Aziraphale had yanked Crowley away from the steep edge of an unforgiving cliff.

“…I’ll just sit with you, angel.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Since then, Aziraphale has been trying to wean Crowley into accepting gratitude. Though he’s stopped outright dismissing it, being thanked obviously doesn’t make him happy.

Aziraphale couldn’t guess for the life of him what made his thankfulness so repulsive. At first, he theorized it was the same feeling that lead Crowley to shove him against a wall at a paintball course in Tadfield. But Crowley isn't putting much stock in his demon identity these days. Though they both do their share of blessings and temptations, it's more force of habit than goal-driven behavior. 

Still, Aziraphale is determined to be a good partner. So, he starts going for reciprocity. It's simple enough: if he returns all of Crowley’s loving gestures, Crowley will feel as loved as Aziraphale does.

But in his usual way, Crowley is unpredictable. Every gesture Aziraphale attempts is met with an expert deflection.

“You don’t have to buy me any plants, I have plenty in my flat. Let’s put this one by the till.”

“No, no, we’re getting the rosé bottle, the Cabernet won’t go with your chicken.”

“I’ve got it, angel. You always forget to put money on your card.”

“For God’s _sake_ , Crowley, just take the damn jacket!”

He’s lost his temper. Crowley is stunned, then quickly looks down as he reaches up and takes the black herringbone jacket Aziraphale had commissioned from his tailor. He holds it carefully in both hands, hands that tremble slightly, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Aziraphale’s stomach twists and his cheeks flush.

“Oh, now I’ve done it. I’m sorry, my dear, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He takes the jacket and puts it aside, seating himself next Crowley on the couch, arm around his slim shoulders. He thinks wretchedly, _Will I ever stop hurting him?_ “Please forgive me. I overreacted.”

Crowley turns to press his cheek against Aziraphale’s chest, breaths in and out. “Don’t have to shout.”

“I know, my darling, I know. I’m very sorry.” He presses his mouth into Crowley's hair, rubbing up and down his arm, taking Crowley’s palm with his free hand and massaging the back of it with his thumb.

“You don’ have to get me anything,” Crowley mumbles, his words in the tone of confession. “I—just because I like doing stuff for you, I’m not trying to _get_ stuff from you.”

Aziraphale considers this for a moment. “I think I’m aware of that, really. But. Sometimes it’s the exchange of gifts that’s the valued act, not the gift itself.”

There is the sort of thick silence that accompanies Crowley searching for the right words. “You want me to stop?”

“No.” He strokes a hand over Crowley’s hair. “I… I suppose I am struggling to figure out what things will make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

They’re both quiet for a long while, the air thick as they both consider this. Eventually, Aziraphale makes them both drink glasses of water. While they don’t leave the couch for the rest of the evening, their thoughts are very much far away from the space between them. 

~

_And we will sit upon the Rocks,  
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,  
By shallow Rivers to whose falls  
Melodious birds sing Madrigals._

~

Crowley’s music slowly adds to the collection in the bookshop. He strolls in holding up a record, plays a particular song he wants Aziraphale to hear, then neglects to take it with him on his way out.

He’s playing Elvis’s Golden Records tonight. Elvis is one of those singers that even Aziraphale couldn’t avoid liking. Plus, it reminds him of how a certain demon had looked utterly delectable in a leather jacket.

They’ve already drained two bottles of a Listán Negro Aziraphale picked up when a slow song comes on.

Aziraphale smiles into his glass. Crowley gets up from his chair, fidgeting around the phonograph until Aziraphale looks at him.

“All right, dear?”

“This song is terrible,” he mutters at the floor, shifting back and forth, drumming fingers, hunched shoulders.

Aziraphale feels as though someone was tugging at his internal organs. He stands and the song skips back to the beginning. Crowley doesn’t look up, even as Aziraphale takes him in his arms, clasping their hands together and wrapping an arm around Crowley’s waist.

They rock together, feet shuffling, turning in slow circles, unpracticed and intimate. Aziraphale lays his head down on Crowley’s shoulder, presses a warm palm to Crowley’s neck, and Crowley holds him even tighter, which is good because Aziraphale feels a little bit in pieces.

They both pretend not to notice the song repeats a dozen more times.

~

Crowley brings home tickets to the West End.

Aziraphale brushes Crowley’s hair, pins back one side with a gold clip, wears the nice cologne.

 _The All-or-Nothing Marriage_ by Eli J. Finkel.

~

Aziraphale suddenly gets up from his armchair and swings his body around, sitting next to Crowley on the couch. Crowley looks surprised and bemused, like he just caught Aziraphale doing indecent things to a pavlova. Taking a bracing gulp of wine, Aziraphale clears his throat then turns, gaze darting between Crowley’s eyes and down to his mouth. Then he leans up, eyes closed, puckers, and drops a very small peck onto the thin, unmoving line of Crowley’s lips.

Crowley blinks owlishly.

“Whazzat?”

“A _kiss_ ,” Aziraphale says, offended. Crowley’s eyebrows have curved to the center of his forehead. “Just thought you might like it,” he adds, slightly gloomily, speaking into his wine glass as though he could drink away the oncoming sulk.

“No, wait. Wait.”

Crowley takes both their glasses and leans across to set them on the desk. He twists his torso and clamps Aziraphale’s face between cool hands.

They kiss.

Aziraphale is a being of the world enough to know the mechanics of this, in a general sense. But the movements of it come instinctive, thrillingly. He later supposes this is a good thing, having tripped some sort of hidden switch in his body, because he knows how to move his lips, breathe through his nose, stroke with his tongue, press with his teeth. He even knows when to pull back to look at Crowley’s face, to witness how his eyes are closed, face flushed, mouth wine-red and glistening. It feels like art.

 _Do you like it?_ he wants to ask, but instead Aziraphale chases him with his lips, his hands, pulling, letting Crowley press him down onto the sofa, letting Crowley make them rumpled and giddy with kisses. It’s like getting drunk but more delicious, burning, hazy, and real.

~

_And I will make thee beds of Roses  
And a thousand fragrant posies,  
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle  
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;_

~

After they got together, Aziraphale had to do some things he didn’t like.

Such as be honest with himself. Such as confront his mistakes. Such as realize the record of Crowley’s affection had detailed entries that stretched for millennia, and the record of Aziraphale’s companionship was much less pleasantly written.

Of course, they loved each other. That much was evident from the day in Crowley’s kitchen, where small, world-saving gestures had been made and very few words had been spoken. They’d both felt it. Something had unfurled.

But they were starting that Something on very, very unequal footing. Not necessarily in terms of the depth of their feelings, but certainly in the quality of expression.

Aziraphale’s love was an unpleasant, cobbled-together heap with a dank smell in comparison to the shining polished surfaces of Crowley’s long-tested affection. Crowley already knew how to love his angel. He’d been going at it repeatedly for years. It was practiced, steady, well-honed with a long list of successes. And Aziraphale’s love was mottled and scarred with the injuries he’d inflicted himself, constant degradations, spites, and neglect. If you were generous, you could maybe give it points for loyalty.

Ask Crowley’s love why, and it will show you the years of devotion to a fussy, radiant piece of heaven.

Ask Aziraphale’s love why, and it will grumble and spit out, _He was the only one there_.

Such a statement was, of course, a lie, but it’s always easier to give a quick lie than examine the painful truth of one’s own failings.

Now, if he wanted that Something fully, Aziraphale had to fix it. He had to take out his love and groom it, untangle it, really look at it for the first time. He had to find the nasty threads and extract them, pulling and pulling until he had felt all the ways he had hurt Crowley, until he knew the reasons why. He had to eradicate those reasons, until nothing else would prevent or detract from his affection for Crowley. Then he had to find the good, faithful habits of it, the repeated gestures that would hone his love into a sparkling, warm, and wonderful thing that was worthy to give to his devoted partner.

It sounded good, in his head. He would try to think back to the times he had rejected or dismissed Crowley, the differences between those times and the times he made Crowley happy. He would set aside purposeful hours for it, alone after closing or when Crowley napped next to him on the couch.

But the more often he did it, the more he realized that examples of the former far outnumbered the latter. Once or twice every century he had done something on purpose to make Crowley happy, and that was mostly after the Arrangement anyway. The rejections had been steady, constant, from Day One, _No, no, not now, you wiley demon, no, you won’t get me to do your bidding, no, I don’t want that, no I won’t go along, no, I am better than this, no, I am better than you._

And Crowley had loved him anyway. Constantly, devotedly, without fail. Had loved him, in general and in particulars, had rescued him, had followed him to London, had carved their life into something that suited him. And Aziraphale had never done anything to deserve it.

~

Aziraphale seldom entered high-rise office buildings, except for his infrequent in-person reports to Heaven. Even then, he never took the elevator up. Anything higher than 10 floors is impractical and frankly, alarming.

So it is quite unusual that the angel finds himself sitting in a slick waiting area on the 24th floor of a posh real estate office. There is an untouched paper cup of water in front of him, and he clutches his briefcase, though it contains nothing other than a printout of the survey he filled out when he made an appointment.

The administrator shows him into an office that is entirely opposite the impersonal waiting room. Plants bloom on every shelf, bursting from every corner, leafy vines spilling over edges of the desk and the filing cabinet and the printer. Ms. Muddle gives him a thin smile with her handshake before gesturing for him to sit.

“Hello, Mr. Fell. Did they offer you some water, tea?”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” he says, feeling somewhat more relaxed with such greenery, though he didn’t let go of his briefcase. A picture of two women in white dresses smile at him from a frame on the bookshelf. “You have _beautiful_ plants.”

The smile that gets is goofier, and Aziraphale likes it better. “Thanks,” she says. “They get plenty of light up here.”

She settles at her desk and clicks a few things on her computer.

“I understand you’re looking for a cottage in the south. Can you tell me more about what you’re thinking?”

“Ah, yes. My partner and I are. Well, we recently… we’re _retired_.”

He just came up with that, and he smiles, pleased at how appropriate a descriptor it is. Plus he’s always liked retirees. So much less preoccupied with social mores.

“We’re looking to simplify. A place to relax. Somewhere with some land, where my partner can have his garden.”

Ms. Muddle’s grin widens, a twinkle of recognition, familiarity lighting up her face. She types into the computer.

“Then let’s get started.”

~

In the morning, Crowley makes eggs and serves them with yesterday’s blueberry muffins. It’s early and the sun is barely rising, their world painted in the dusky quality of just-post-dawn light.

Crowley’s sleep outfit is pants usually, but today he wears an undershirt of Aziraphale’s. He’s loose-limbed and happy, moving around the kitchen with easy confidence, humming as he sets a plate in front of Aziraphale and drops a kiss to his temple before sitting down himself. The sight of him here shifts something inside Aziraphale. He considers how unfathomable it is that the entire world isn’t in love with this person.

Finished with his eggs, he goes over and plants himself in Crowley’s skinny lap, belly to belly.

“What’s all this?” Crowley murmurs, stroking the back of Aziraphale’s pajama shirt, one hand warmer from clutching a mug of coffee.

“Nothing. Everything. You’re here. Isn’t that amazing?” Aziraphale is hardly a poet, but from the tightening of Crowley’s arms, he doesn’t mind ineloquence.

Minutes of quiet breaths go by. “It’s really something,” he replies at last.

~

Aziraphale likes everything soft. Clothes worn and laundered so often that they’re practically threadbare. Bamboo socks and velvet-upholstered divans. He likes fuzzy slippers and fleece blankets and the worn-in fabric feel of book spines.

Crowley appreciates the rough things. Squeaky leather jackets and chain necklaces. Ripped jeans and ornamental, uncomfortable chairs. He likes heavy boots and stubble and occasionally, stilettos.

Aziraphale learns to dig his nails into Crowley’s scalp while they’re kissing. Crowley switches from tacky gel to firm-hold spray. Aziraphale buys a real wool blanket for the couch, the scratchy kind. Crowley adds satin throw pillows. Their lives have always been a tangle, a knot that grows more and more complicated, but now it feels more like two different sets of puzzles whose pieces miraculously fit together.

Yet Aziraphale knows that the burden lies more with him. After all he's done to hurt Crowley, loving him now has to be deliberate, planned and practiced, until it is an everyday, commonplace occurrence. He has to cultivate a love that surrounds Crowley, saturates him, soaks into his skin, overwhelming the wounds of the past until they are barely noticeable next to the bright and aching light of Aziraphale's love. He reads every book on relationships he can get his hands on, but not even that can always distract him from the echoes of his sins.

~

This is how Crowley happens upon him one day, the shades drawn, no lamps yet lit, the barest reaches of twilight as his shroud. Crowley’s steps are tentative.

“All right, angel?” he asks, eyes flicking to various surfaces, most likely in search of an explicable bottle.

“Oh, yes,” he replies, smiling, but it’s a lie if they ever heard one. Crowley steps around books and sits on the sofa, perched on the edge, knees on elbows.

Aziraphale remembers the last time he’d attempted an admission of guilt, specifically for what he’d said in the bandstand. Crowley had comforted him then, too, sitting like he is now, reaching out the way he always had, always giving him what he needed to feel better.

Aziraphale is thoroughly disgusted with himself.

“I was thinking of Agnes Nutter, you know,” he says, speaking past the knot in his throat. Crowley gives a hum of interest but clearly isn’t buying it. “This whole prophecy business. It makes one consider the ‘free will’ aspect of it all. Because if Agnes could have predicted it, who’s to say that anyone’s choices had any effect on anything? Doesn’t that go against the idea of free will?”

“I… suppose.” Crowley seems on high alert. Aziraphale wants to reach out then, comfort him, stop himself from feeling this. But he doesn’t deserve it.

“Possible that God just predetermines everything. Heaven, Hell. All of it. None of it matters. We’re exactly as She made us.”

“Aziraphale?”

“Because I did.” He barrels on, because now he's got a grip on the thorn, and he can't stop until it's yanked out. “I had doubts. During the Fall, even. And when I met you, it seemed—you were like a mirror, reflecting this part of me that I knew I ought to despise. I wanted so _badly_ to dislike you. I told myself all your charm and wit and appeal were just—wiles. Devilry. But you kept proving me wrong. Doing things that were good, earnestly good, and I didn’t want to acknowledge that, I didn’t want to see that it was possible to have shades of grey. I wanted my side to be black and white. I wanted to believe that my purpose was just _Good_ , even as I let such awful, terrible things happen for an unknowable plan. If it was ineffable, then I justify it for that. But I saw you as the evidence, proving that it wasn’t a matter of good versus evil. It was just two sides of the same coin. You proved that to me, over and over, and I despised it. So I shoved you down. I took my self-hatred and doubt and poured them into you constantly, dismissing you, degrading you, because I was afraid and I had to make you feel lower so I could feel better. That is incorrigible. That is terrible. That is—it’s _evil_. When all you’ve ever done is _love_ me--

“I’ve been absolutely wretched to you,” he says, and he doesn’t remember when the tears started coming down his face, but he can’t pause, even to breathe. “Horrible, just awful. Going around as if I was made inherently better, but I’m not. I’ve never been. You’re the one who—given all the advantages I had, I was still lazy and selfish and cruel, especially to you, and you were—you were always loyal and earnest and good, so good, you did good things when you weren’t supposed to, things that were just good, and you made me feel wanted, Crowley, you kept me safe and made me smile, and you _loved_ me, and I treated you like you were lower than the dirt under my shoes.”

The silence after Aziraphale’s outburst is stifling. Crowley is still wearing his glasses.

“Forgive me, I…” He’s trembling, brings his hand up suddenly to steady his aching head. The motion upsets his tea mug, and it topples off the armrest, the wings breaking off as it hits the floor.

“ _Forgive me.”_

His voice breaks. He sucks in little gasps of air to try and quiet his sobs, presses the heel of his palm to his mouth and chin, covers his eyes as much as he can with one hand.

Thin fingers pluck at his sleeves. He’s too exhausted to resist, lets Crowley move him how he wants. He ends up on Crowley’s lap, cradled in his arms, most of his face hidden in Crowley’s neck.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he weeps, ashamed of himself for clinging closer. “I should be on my knees, begging for you to forgive me. You shouldn’t be— shouldn’t be _holding_ me!”

Crowley hushes him, rocks him, winds a hand behind his back to rub up and down. “No, see? You’re the one holding me. So I’m holding us, and it’s okay.” His voice is thick and a bit gravely, like when he’s just woken.

“I don’t deserve _us_.” He gives Crowley a tight, sustained squeeze, trying to communicate that the last thing he wants is to give this up.

Crowley inhales a breath, exhales in a long stream, then repeats the process again. Aziraphale remembers to breathe then, presses his palm to Crowley’s chest, notices the sunglasses are gone.

“Well. I _want_ us.”

Crowley says it simply, like it isn’t the thing that makes the sun rise for Aziraphale every day, which is far more literal an expression than it usually is, given the events of the past year.

“And after all that, you’re gonna give me whatever I want, yeah?”

This startles a laugh out of Aziraphale, and he sees Crowley grin. He is so overwhelmed by the mercy of this statement that a fresh wave of tears leak out, but he doesn’t sob. Crowley dries his cheeks.

With a wave of Crowley’s hand, the mug jumps back onto the desk, wings restored. 

~

_A gown made of the finest wool  
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;  
Fair lined slippers for the cold,  
With buckles of the purest gold;_

~

They had gone to the parade together. Neither one of them is much for public affection, but it was still nice to hold hands and receive approving smiles from those around. Aziraphale especially liked the brightly colored cocktail specials with froufrou umbrellas.

And Crowley’s legs look amazing in a skirt.

~

They have looked at so many properties today, Aziraphale’s head is spinning with lot size and room dimensions and Neighborhood Watches and historical fence fees.

“We have just one more to see. I’m not sure it’s what you’re looking for, but since we’re out here.” Ms. Muddle offers him an encouraging smile. Aziraphale’s return of it is more pinch-lipped, but only because he’s exhausted. A cup of tea and a cuddle would fix him right up, but Crowley is ages away.

None of the cottages they’d seen so far had been right. Too small, too big, too close to the town, too far away, garden too small, garden too manicured, et cetera. He was considering asking how long it would take to build something from scratch. Aziraphale can picture the perfect place so clearly in his head, its brick walls, its old-fashioned roof, the garden with plenty of room for improvement. He sees Crowley in all its spaces: grass-stained jeans in the garden, lounging out on the porch, fussing with the wine in kitchen, dozing sprawled on their bed. The mere image of it is so real and so fantastic that his throat feels thick.

As soon they turn onto the drive, the feeling hits him like a wall.

Love.

Aziraphale looks up and around, but it’s half a minute before he can see the cottage peering through some trees. They park in front of the car port and Ms. Muddle digs in her purse for the keys, but Aziraphale is already out of the car and staring.

It is beautiful. Picturesque. Perfectly shabby in all its particulars. The garden is overgrown and messy, leaves and sticks strewn about by a recent storm. Ms. Muddle unlocks the front door and pauses before letting Aziraphale in.

“Well. This… isn’t exactly how it’s described in the listing.”

Aziraphale doesn't know what was in the listing. But he feels like he’s floating as he moves around the house, everything astonishing.

The sitting room is warm and comfortable, bright yellow wallpaper, happy even where it was peeling. Off the sitting room a conservatory spans the whole side of the house, overlooking the garden and a large pond. The kitchen and the bathrooms are sleek and modern, making the rest of the house feel homier by contrast. Even the bedroom, unremarkable except for its door to the conservatory, has the feeling of comfortable antiquity, like an upholstered rocking chair. The ceilings are low, bare wood floors waiting for cozy rugs, a fireplace with a mantle. There is a concrete-walled cellar, a large room small-windowed room lined with built-in shelves, and several meters away, near the start of a wooden pier, a greenhouse.

Ms. Muddle walks around muttering over and over, “This isn’t right,” and making notes on her clipboard, but Aziraphale knows it is _exactly_ right.

There are two possibilities. One, he accidentally miracled this place straight from his fantasies. Two, a higher power had made it for him. (And by being made for him, it was made for him and Crowley to _share_.)

Aziraphale isn’t sure which of the options cheers him more. He turns to Ms. Muddle with all the delight of a child.

“We’ll take it.”

~

Aziraphale smooths a comforting hand down Crowley’s bare chest, watching it rise and pulse with the uneven sound of his breath.

“You sure you don’t want me to—”

“Quite,” Aziraphale interrupts. The glow of the lamp paints Crowley’s skin in gold. He tips whiskey into a shot glass. “Ready?”

Crowley’s lower lip is white under the pressure of his teeth. He nods.

Aziraphale upends the glass over Crowley’s belly button, then ducks his head to slurp up the liquid. The sound is obscene and silly, and Crowley shrieks and laughs, back arching, toes curling on the blanket, arms flying up to cover his face as the angel grins with wet lips.

“It _tickles_.” Crowley is accusatory, glaring from under his forearms.

“Imagine that,” Aziraphale replies mildly, pouring another shot. It’s hard to stop smiling enough to drink it, and he nearly gets a hipbone to the cheek for his troubles.

“Do it again,” Crowley urges, not begging, certainly not begging. Aziraphale is lit up from the inside. “ _Again_.”

~

Aziraphale takes Crowley to Kew Gardens.

Crowley buys him every single overpriced desert in the Victoria Plaza Café.

 _The Science of Happily Ever After_ by Ty Tashiro.

~

It gets into sort of a routine. Aziraphale spends all the time he likes with Crowley. (Every second together feels precious, stolen, something they were never supposed to have but lucked out anyway.) But as soon as Crowley saunters out on one of his various errands, Aziraphale rushes to his back room where he’s stowed his supplies, then miracles them and himself to their cottage.

The weeks of winter shedding its last snows find Aziraphale in practical overalls, putting finishing touches on their cottage. It's already livable, but Aziraphale sets himself a laundry list of tasks. He paints most of the walls a cheerful white, fixes the peeling wallpaper and a leaky faucet or two. He cleans up the debris in the garden but otherwise leaves it untouched. Rugs are brought in, sofas and armchairs and beds placed over them. A family of ducks settles into the spring-fed pond, getting fat off of oats and cooked rice. Aziraphale stacks firewood, polishes knobs, sweeps out the greenhouse, cleans the glass windows of the conservatory until they look invisible (might have actually become invisible, he gets carried away sometimes). Once he sneaks over to Crowley’s apartment, the front door unlocking for him as he put his hand on the knob, to take some measurements of Crowley’s furniture.

Aziraphale is not the industrious type, not the type to keep busy for the sake of keeping busy. All other things being indifferent, he would probably end up sitting in his armchair reading books and drinking wine while the sun rose and set around him. But Aziraphale knows that there is power in action and intention, and it feels right. He needs to put in the effort to make their home what it has to be. He is doing it for Crowley. He is doing it for both of them.

~

_A belt of straw and Ivy buds,  
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:  
And if these pleasures may thee move,  
Come live with me, and be my love_

~

The key to successful dates, Aziraphale decides, is to let Crowley do whatever he likes and Aziraphale just has to let himself be pleased at every turn. Plus, there’s a positive correlation between the number of times Aziraphale kisses him or holds his hand and the number of times Crowley smiles.

They’re on the sofa now, Crowley with a magazine and Aziraphale’s head in his lap. He’s indulging himself, he knows, with Crowley’s fingers in his hair. But sometimes the hedonist wins over.

“Do you still have that waiter’s jacket? The one you wore at the party?”

“Mm?” Crowley lets the magazine go slack in his hand. “No, just miracled it up for the day. Why, did you fancy the cut?”

Aziraphale fiddles with the throw blanket, pinching little sections of fabric and rolling them between his fingers. He considers himself an expert on putting things diplomatically, but using such strategies toward his feelings was still new.

“Never really seen you wear white before.”

Which might have been odd, considering their thousands of years of friendship. Except that Crowley was even more committed to aesthetic than Aziraphale was.

Crowley has stopped petting his hair, but Aziraphale can’t think of anything to say that would sufficiently backtrack such a statement. Instead he wraps an arm around Crowley’s middle and snuggles in closer.

The next morning, Aziraphale is reading at his armchair when someone clears their throat.

He looks up to see Crowley in his usual cocked-hip stance, fingers on one hand stretching and wiggling. But he’s wearing a white cotton kurta and pants, silver embellishment shining at the neckline and hem. His hair is curled with care, different from his usual rock-star-on-the-morning-after-a-concert look.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, his book snapping shut.

“Not really my thing, is it,” Crowley mumbles, uncomfortable and something else that Aziraphale can’t name.

“Would you step forward, please?”

He hesitates, then takes a few steps forward, until he’s blinking in a shaft of morning sun that peered through the edge of the curtains.

It isn’t as though he’s _bathed_ in light, as Aziraphale would never expose his books to such a cruel fate as a swath of direct sun. But it runs a sash over his face, down across the top of his chest. It makes his hair glow like fire, a spotlight on his red-bitten lips, how much darker his skin looks against the white cotton. His pupils are tiny slivers surrounded by flecked gold.

Aziraphale feels like he is looking at someone entirely new. Or, quite possibly, someone who had used to be, so long ago as to be untouched by memory.

Aziraphale’s feet carry him over. He presses a cool palm to the side of Crowley’s face.

“My dear, you are ethereal.”

Crowley’s eyes fall shut as he turns his face into Aziraphale’s hand. “You mean occult.”

“I mean supernaturally beautiful, elegant, otherworldly.”

When they kiss, Aziraphale thinks that it might not be entirely a curse to be allowed to live forever.

An hour later, curled up on the sofa, he whispers a confession into Crowley’s hair. “You look lovely, of course. But I find… forgive me, I prefer you in your usual clothes. Obviously, you can wear whatever you like, but. I love the way you always look. The way you always are.”

~

The day after the cottage is ready, Aziraphale lies in bed, watching Crowley’s sleeping form, his deep breaths. He vows never to get used to this, the trust that is evident from his unconscious body and bare skin. He can reach out and touch his cheek, sweep hair away from his eyes, watch him settle and sigh. Aziraphale is so utterly in love, and it's at once frightening and familiar, thrilling and comforting. Opposites attract, and all that.

Crowley had tried for 6,000 years to make himself hard to love. It was the only way to keep himself safe, the armor around his swollen and bleeding heart. When he had to continue on believing that Aziraphale didn’t love him, he could point to all his prickliness and sarcasm and walls and say, “No, see, I did this on _purpose_. I made it impossible for him.” Because he would much rather choose to be unlovable than to believe Aziraphale had chosen not to love him.

For a situation as dire as that, Aziraphale had only one remedy.

He had to build Crowley a home made out of love.

It had to be cultivated, bespoke, tended to and nurtured. Every brick and every windowpane, each floorboard, each nail, each pipe had to be perfect and loving at its core. He had to make a house where Crowley could sleep in blankets spun of affection, drink coffee from the mug he liked best every morning, have special ready places for his car and his plants and his angel.

 _I love you,_ would say the cupboard where he fetched their wine.

 _You’re my one and only_ , would groan the couch cushions as they sank to accept Crowley’s tired body.

 _All the good things in the world, I will give to you_ , whispers the door when it opened to welcome him or blessed him as he went.

No matter where he would go, with or without Aziraphale, their home would always be there for him, warm and waiting.

No detail could be spared. It has to say to Crowley, _I have seen all of the things you are, and I have made a home for them with me. Even those you tried to hide, things you didn’t want me to see, I have set a place for them at our table._

After months of planning and work, Aziraphale wants it to be right. He wants Crowley to feel it as soon as he steps foot on the property, all the love and acceptance that a being of love can possibly give, all of it for Crowley.

He wants it to be right. He _needs_ it to be perfect.

~

“Since the garden, y’know,” Crowley had mumbled one night, out of nowhere, or more likely out of the wine bottle.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale hadn’t been quite as drunk, because he likes the feeling of Crowley in his lap, had wanted the memory of it to be sharp.

“That’s when I knew. When I wanted it, anyway. With all the plants ‘n things. Was nice.” His wine glass had been still in his hand even with his arms hanging over Aziraphale’s shoulders, and Aziraphale had felt the flex of his muscle, the tilt of his head, the brush of his hair as he had tipped more wine into his mouth.

“When you knew what, darling?” The bumps of Crowley’s spine had been able to be felt even through his shirt and jacket. His body was terrifyingly breakable.

Crowley had sighed, sat back and looked Aziraphale in the eyes, his own stare wine-unfocused but earnest. “Mm, me and you.” He had gestured between them. “This. Wanted this. You and me. Sometimes wish we wouldn’t’ve left all the trees ‘n waterfalls ‘n stuff. Like we could’ve stayed in paradise. ‘s silly.” He had shaken his head, curls swishing. “Too many walls.”

“It’s not silly.” _You were beautiful from the start,_ Aziraphale had wanted to say _. I thought you were the manifestation of my hidden, wicked, delicious desires_ , he had wanted to say. “We could always grow another garden,” he had offered instead, nudging a kiss against Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had hummed and sank against him again, mumbling something into Aziraphale’s neck. He had caught “books” and “London,” but when Aziraphale had tried to coax more out of him, Crowley was asleep.

~

_The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing  
For thy delight each May-morning:  
If these delights thy mind may move,  
Then live with me, and be my love._

~

It smells of grass and flowers and dust on the road after they’d exited the A285. Crowley lets him roll the windows down and Aziraphale points to the roads to turn down. Crowley’s arm is slung across the back of the seat, easy, fingers resting on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, deliberate.

“It’s coming up on the left. Yes, just another quarter mile or so.” Aziraphale pulls at his waistcoat and smooths out his trousers over and over. Ever since Aziraphale had broken down and Crowley had held him together, the spaces between them had been fewer and brighter, touches less tentative, smiles given more freely. Now he’s afraid that this is too far, too ambitious, that he should have waited year or two for this, lest he scare Crowley back into anxiety.

“Just here, yes, turn down this drive.” Crowley turns in sharply, nearly taking the mailbox clean off its post, and Aziraphale’s hands fly to brace himself. Crowley grins, fingertips digging in, and Aziraphale bites back an exasperated sigh.

Crowley slows when the house came into view, his foot drifting off the gas. He’s staring, one hand pressing the wheel just slightly with the turn of the drive, as they roll to a stop at the beginning of the walk to the front door.

Aziraphale leaps out and hurries to the porch, using a quick miracle to ensure that the inside is dust-free. Crowley is slow-moving, body unfolding in stages, looking around, head twisting, probably gone all blinky behind his glasses. But his mouth isn’t pinched, and the crease between his eyebrows hasn’t yet made an appearance.

“You need to see the inside first,” Aziraphale breaks in, and Crowley’s legs carry him forward, even through a full-body rotation as he gazes around at all the trees. Aziraphale fits keys into the lock with shaking hands and opens their door.

He is prattling, he knows, taking Crowley from room to room, going on about the original hardwood, the working fireplace, the wine cellar. But Crowley’s expression never changes from its confused state, even in the conservatory, even when shown the greenhouse.

Aziraphale’s heart starts to sink.

No comments when Aziraphale shows him the tape marks on the floor, outlining placement ideas for Crowley’s furniture. No comments on the special roomy space for the painter’s palette Aziraphale had given Crowley, Anthony II. No comments for the empty plant stands, the repaired wooden pier and its ducks, or the car port.

The longer Crowley is quiet, the more Aziraphale’s fear swells and aches. Why hadn’t he noticed the ceilings were so low? And who on earth thought Crowley would like yellow floral wallpaper? Is it not modern enough? Should he have made the whole thing concrete and glass, like Crowley’s apartment?

“…And of course, I left the garden mostly alone, because I figured you would want to have more room to do what you wanted. So. That’s the whole of it.”

He stops when they’re back in the font room, and he tries not to look too expectant, like it will hurt him when Crowley says no. Crowley is still looking around, like he’s reading some invisible writing all over the walls. Aziraphale shifts from foot to foot, counts to twenty, then sucks in a breath of courage.

“Of course, you must know that I’m willing to change any of it, to better suit your tastes. I know a cottage in the South Downs isn’t exactly your style, but, there’s not really space in London for a big garden. And—I’m not saying we need to move now, or even soon, but. It’ll be here when we want it. If we want it,” he clarifies, as his voice takes on an unpleasant wobble.

Twenty more seconds, and he takes another breath.

“I would like to be clear, this is not… a demand for anything, or even an expectation. It should not be an obligation. It is a gift, and it is a gift that may be… returned. If it isn’t to the recipient’s taste.”

He wishes he could steel himself better. He wishes that it wouldn’t break his heart a little if Crowley walked away. He knows that Crowley wouldn’t leave him, it’s not that. It’s just that he may have gotten it so completely wrong, may have misread the signs, worked hard at something that was incorrect all along, revealed his complete ignorance of how to love Crowley.

He had done this all to try and show Crowley how much their love meant to him, and it may have all been a foolish, useless endeavor. It would turn this cottage instantly from an idyllic dream to a physical reminder of all his failures to love someone who had loved him unfailingly.

“This is for me?”

Aziraphale looks over him, his heart pausing in anticipation. Crowley has a hand on the doorframe, thumb tracing over the grain of the wood.

“…Yes?” He doesn’t want it to be a question, so he tries again. “Yes.”

Crowley is still looking at his thumb on the wood. Aziraphale’s stomach is in his throat.

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley takes off his glasses and looks over at Aziraphale. His eyes are dark and wet.

“When, ah. When can we move in?”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a smile. He laughs, once, as Crowley wipes his eyes, and then Aziraphale sweeps him off his feet into a hug, kisses him hard and sloppy. Crowley is smiling with tears on his cheeks and he squeezes and squeezes Aziraphale so tightly, he can feel Crowley’s heart beating in his chest.

~

Their first night in the cottage, Aziraphale brings out the best bottles from the cellar.

Crowley makes carbonara.

They sit together on the rocking swing outside, drinking and watching the stars as they twinkle into view, one by one.

Tucked into Crowley's shirt, lying warm against his skin, a signet ring with angel wings hangs on a gold chain.

 _Mindful Relationship Habits_ by S. J. Scott and Barrie Davenport.

~

_You are like me, you will die too, but not today:  
you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine:   
if I say to you “To you I say,” you have not been   
set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost   
radio, may never be an oil painting or  
Old Master’s charcoal sketch: you are  
a concordance of person, number, voice,  
and place, strawberries spread through your name   
as if it were budding shrubs, how you remind me   
of some spring, the waters as cool and clear  
(late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind),   
which is where you occur in grassy moonlight:   
and you are a lily, an aster, white trillium  
or viburnum, by all rights mine, white star   
in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving  
from its earthwards journeys, here where there is   
no snow (I dreamed the snow was you,  
when there was snow), you are my right,  
have come to be my night (your body takes on   
the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep   
becomes you): and you fall from the sky  
with several flowers, words spill from your mouth  
in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees   
and seas have flown away, I call it  
loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you,   
a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all,   
and free of any eden we can name_

**Author's Note:**

> The poem interspersed is "[The Passionate Shepherd to His Love](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44675/the-passionate-shepherd-to-his-love)" by Christopher Marlowe. The poem at the end is "[You, Therefore](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49268/you-therefore)" by Reginald Shepherd.
> 
> This took a long time to write. I deleted about 4K of it and basically changed the whole thing; it was originally from Crowley's perspective. (Still not sure if I'm happy with it.) Kudos and comments are _very_ much appreciated, friends.


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